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Home of The Saturday Evening PostFri, 16 Feb 2018 20:38:40 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.8.5Who Really Invented Monopoly?http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2017/09/04/in-the-magazine/really-invented-monopoly.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2017/09/04/in-the-magazine/really-invented-monopoly.html#commentsMon, 04 Sep 2017 12:00:50 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=125504The beloved board game was not intended as a celebration of wealth but as a cautionary lesson about corporate greed.

]]>For decades, the story of Monopoly’s invention was a warm, inspiring, Horatio Alger narrative. A version of it, tucked into countless game boxes, told the tale of an unemployed man, Charles Darrow, who went to his Great Depression-era basement desperate for money to support his family. Tinkering around, he created a board game to remind them of better times, and finding modest success selling it near his home in Philadelphia, Darrow eventually sold it to the American toy and game manufacturer Parker Brothers. The game, Monopoly, became a smash hit, saving both Darrow and Parker Brothers from the brink of destruction.

The creation story is laced with persistence, creative brilliance, and an almost patriotic presentation of work ethic.
The problem is — it isn’t exactly true. What’s more, Monopoly’s origin story teaches us that innovation can be a complicated affair and that the “light bulb” moment of how things get made is, in fact, sometimes a myth. (The scale of Thomas Edison’s own contributions to the invention so associated with his name, fittingly, is now debated.) In the case of Monopoly, the journey of American invention was less a linear path and more a messy room shared by several people. The game was, in fact, created in 1903 — long before Darrow’s mythical basement revelation — by Elizabeth Magie, the daughter of an abolitionist who was herself a staunch anti-capitalist crusader. Magie created Landlord’s Game, the forerunner to Monopoly, not as a celebration of wealth but as a protest against the evil monopolies of the time.

Three decades before Parker Brothers and Darrow took credit for it, her game was embraced by a constellation of notable left-wing Americans of the time, as well as on various college campuses in the Northeast. ACLU chairman Ernest Angell played it, and so did Scott Nearing, a radical professor at Wharton, champion of academic freedom, and a father of the “green” movement. It flourished in Arden, Delaware, a tiny utopian village founded by followers of popular political economist Henry George’s “single tax” theory, a belief system Magie was passionate about. Among the residents of Arden who embraced the game was Upton Sinclair, author of The Jungle, who corresponded with, and possibly met, Magie.

In the 1920s, homemade copies of Magie’s game found their way to what was then a flourishing Quaker community in Atlantic City. Quaker teachers in Atlantic City incorporated it into their teaching — with some modifications. Dice, associated with gambling, were discordant with their religious beliefs. The Quakers, practitioners of silence, also did away with the loud auctioning associated with the game, added fixed prices to the board, and modified it to be more child-friendly.

It was a version of this game — Magie’s Landlord’s Game with some of the Atlantic City Quaker modifications — that a friend taught Darrow to play. Darrow then sold it to Parker Brothers.

In the 1920s, homemade copies of Elizabeth Magie’s game found their way to what was then a flourishing Quaker community in Atlantic City.

Darrow and Parker Brothers made millions for “creating” Monopoly, whereas Magie’s income from the game was reported to be a mere $500. She died in 1948, having outlived her husband, with no children and few knowing of her role as the true originator of the game that became Monopoly. She had worked in Washington, D.C., in relative obscurity as a secretary, and her income as a maker of games, according to the 1940 U.S. Census, was “0.”

Magie’s story would have been lost if not for Ralph Anspach, an economics professor at San Francisco State University whose legal battle over his own Anti-Monopoly board game in the 1970s unearthed the whole scandal. Anspach, today in his 90s and retired from teaching, but still selling his game, became a tireless detective of Monopoly’s origin story and spent a decade fighting for the right to talk freely about what he’d discovered. Although Magie and Anspach never met — Anspach was a child refugee of Danzig at the time Magie was close to dying — their fates became linked together unexpectedly. Anspach’s fate partially hinged on proving Magie was the inventor; Magie’s story would not have been told without a digger and advocate like him.

Over the five years it took me to research The Monopolists and in the two years since its publication, I’ve seen many a jaw drop as I told the tale of Monopoly’s lost inventor and her unlikely exhumation. The most common question is, “How did this happen?”

In Magie’s time, it was far too easy to suppress the voices of marginalized groups, including women. At the time she patented her game, she didn’t have the right to vote. The head of the U.S. Patent Office was actively discouraging women from applying for patents. Job opportunities were extremely limited, and it was common in the press to talk about how “weak,” “delicate,” and “smaller-brained” women were.

The greater astonishment maybe isn’t just that Magie lived the life of a game designer and political thinker far before her time, but that any shreds of her story survived at all. In my research, I stitched together enough of Magie’s trail — newspaper articles, Census records, her own writings, photographs — to get a sense of who Magie was and what she was trying to say to the world. But it’s hard not to think of her peers in her time who left far less behind, including female branches of my own family tree. Their contributions were large, but often silent, an untold quantity of labor that helped build this country. History is full of Lizzie Magies, Quaker teachers, friends who share ideas, the kinds of people who help shape our world and go largely unnoticed for doing so.

Makeover: Charles Darrow reinvented The Landlord’s Game and made a fortune; an early handmade version of Monopoly is at The Strong National Museum of PlayCourtesy of The Strong National Museum of Play, Rochester, New York.

The “light bulb” idea and the Darrow myth persist, in part because we want them to. On some level, we all fantasize about a lightning bolt of brilliance hitting us. The instantaneous nature of that seems particularly American: fast food, fast cars, fast road to becoming an innovative — and wealthy — genius.

Part of the reason today’s incarnation of Monopoly is so fun to play is that it was tweaked from Magie’s original design for better play. The core of the game is Magie’s, but the Atlantic City properties, the fixed prices, and the graphics all helped make it better. In today’s era of selfies, being one’s own publicist on social media, and the egotism wrapped around one’s Twitter follower count, perhaps Monopoly’s creation story reminds us that, together and connected, we are better. The “light bulb” narrative of invention, by definition, largely omits much chance for collaboration, a force that can be as vital for creation as the air we breathe.

Perhaps it’s always been more than a game after all.

Mary Pilon is the author of The Monopolists, a New York Times bestseller about the history of the board game Monopoly. This essay is part of What It Means to Be American, a partnership of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History and Zócalo Public Square. The essay originally appeared at Zócalo Public Square.

This article is featured in the September/October 2017 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives.

Of course, Jeff’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite limericks, from our runners-up, in no particular order:

She planned a whole day at the beach,
A book and a soda in reach,
But her eyes closed in sleep,
No one said a peep,
And now she’s as pink as a peach!

—Jean MacIver, Keystone Heights, Florida

Loretta would constantly boast
That HER tans were better than most.
Her bragging subsided,
When a child confided …
“That lady reminds me of toast.”

Said Larry the Lifeguard, “Have Fun,
But don’t fall asleep in the sun!”
The late Mrs. Corning
Ignored Larry’s warning
That, “sharks prefer people WELL-DONE.”

—Guy Pietrobono, Washingtonville, New York

She was boating, enjoying the view,
And the temperature reached 92.
She burned really bad,
And now she is sad.
Which makes the gal red, white, and “blue.”

—Joyce Petrichek, Finleyville, Pennsylvania

It seemed like such a good notion
To spend all day by the ocean
But I’d trade all the fun
I had in the sun
For a gallon of calamine lotion!

—Joe McMann, Katy, Texas

There once was a girl named Lorraine,
Who looked at white skin with disdain.
She thought that a tan ,
Would get her a man,
But all that she got was some pain!
—Angie Gyetvai, Old Castle, Ontario, Canada

The sun is a vile, ruthless mobster;
I’m burnt to a crisp like a lobster.
Oh, my, how I sizzle!
My beach day, a fizzle…
Some ointment? I’ll take a great gob, Sir.

—Lorraine Ray, Aiken, South Carolina

A fair-skinned young blonde went to Maui
In search of a tan that was Wowie!
Just a half-hour roast
Turned her into burnt toast.
Cool witch hazel eased not her owie.

—Claudia Kohlbrenner, Libertyville, Illinois

When Madge changed her first name to Scarlett,
She dreamed of becoming a starlet.
A very dark tan
Was part of her plan,
But now Scarlett really is Scarlet.

]]>Another Level: How Candy Crush nearly crushed my soulhttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/04/18/humor/lighter-side/another-level-how-candy-crush-nearly-crushed-my-soul.html
Fri, 18 Apr 2014 13:00:55 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=98655I’m on a binge this week. I see colored dots even when I’m not playing. At the beginning of each game, I say, "This is the last."

My husband is curled over something held low in his lap. He doesn’t answer.

“OK then,” I say. “Let me try for awhile.”

“No. I thought you quit.”

“Just one time. Just a little bit. Then I’ll be done.”

He ignores me, his eyes fixed, glazed, a zoned-out slackness to his mouth. I’m momentarily piqued, but then feel a flash of relief. I’ve dodged a bullet. If I relapse, there’s no knowing how far it’ll go.

At first, it’s simple: Line up three of a kind and they drop.

Get four in a row and they turn into a super one; the same thing happens if you make a T or a letter L–a different kind of super one.

Knock two super ones together, they throb and explode in a torrent of colors, sending little jelly-like fish swimming around the screen.

“It’s free” is the come on, but you can pay to get “boosters,” little cheats to help you win–a hammer, a hand, a giant bam-bam lollipop.

I swore I’d never pay to play. Except maybe just for this level, the one that’s impossible.

I’m on a binge this week. I have a crick in my shoulder, a pain in my neck. I see colored dots even when I’m not playing.

At the beginning of each game, I say, This is the last. See, I’m actually not the kind of person who plays video games.

Then I hit “play again.”

“Come to bed,” my husband says. I settle in next to his warm furry nakedness, then grab my phone for just one more round. He groans and turns over.

I dream of lining things up, having them drop.

In the morning, I play just one game. Hair of the dog and all.

I wait while it loads; anticipation builds. Like making the preparations for drug use, the rolling or grinding or measuring, or whatever.
The relief when the board’s set up. Happy colors, happy music. My path set out for me. I can do this!

I start slow–most of the levels aren’t timed. I’ll play it smart this time, try and line up my moves, don’t go for the easy three, the pulsing ones the game prompts me with if I seem to deliberate too long.

My unfinished novel pants at my feet like an annoying dog; I pointedly ignore it and start another level.

Line up, slide down. Line up, line up, slide down.

Nasty game this time. A couple more tries. Then, good round! Almost cleared the board. Try again.

Be careful, too many random choices and you can lose your life.

All the time, the game is nudging–give your friends lives! Invite your friends! Ask your friends to unlock levels! Share your wins!

Give a life to a friend. See, I’m magnanimous. Or, then I feel guilty, like a dealer, roping them in.

Accept a life from a friend. I’m popular–someone likes me!

I play day and night. I have to beat one level before doing any other task–one level stretching to several. I start to get antsy hanging out with friends, anxious for them to leave so I can go and play.

Ashamed, I hide my phone from prying eyes, toggle off the screen when someone comes in the room. I hope it saved; I was doing well.

Finally, I screw up my resolve and remove the app entirely.

Actually, semi-finally–the next morning, I put it back on and play again. Amazingly, I easily pass the level on which I’d spent the whole previous day. See, it knows when you’re leaving and acts sweet, like an abusive boyfriend. It wants you dependent and passive. It acts indifferent, but wants you there.

It understands you. It wants you.

One day I quit, cold turkey. I post on Facebook, I’m done with the world’s most addictive game. Later, friends tell me they started playing because of my post, addictive being the highest recommendation.

That girl in the pretty red dress
Is stuck in a terrible mess
Some nasty old boy
Has stolen her toy
No wonder she’s under such stress
—Neal Levin, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan

Congratulations to Neal Levin! For his poem describing the illustration at left by J.C. Leyendecker, Neal wins $25—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our upcoming issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, Neal’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

Bobby’s swinging my dolly so high.
I’m afraid she might fall from the sky.
He offered me first,
But I feared the worst,
So I told him my dolly’s not shy.

—Rollin Keller, Lakewood, California

Jack does not impress me at all
By snatching my favorite doll.
His daredevil fling
Proves only one thing—
He’s just an obnoxious goofball.

—Lynnda Cruz, Las Vegas, Nevada

My brother—how daring is he?
I just can’t believe what I see!
My favorite doll—
I hope she won’t fall.
But I wish (how I wish) it was me …

—Doug Harris, Stockton-on-Tees, England

I once had a brother named Paul,
Who suddenly grabbed my best doll.
He swung her around
Barely missing the ground,
And I just couldn’t watch this at all.

—Maggie Govanucci, Monroeville, Pennsylvania

Big brother was such a great tease
When taunting Samantha with ease.
Little sis couldn’t look
When her dolly he took
A ride on the backyard trapeze.

—Jean Roeth, Springfield, Ohio

No matter how hard he tries,
My brother tells little white lies.
He said it would please her
If he could “trapeze” her.
I just hope my baby survives!

—Sheldon R. Mielke, Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin

I’m the kid on the flying trapeze.
Dolly rides as I swing by my knees.
Sis peeks through her fingers,
And though her fear lingers,
She knows I just do it to tease.

—Joy Smith, Burlington, Wisconsin

From nowhere he suddenly came,
A boy playing some kind of game.
He snatched up my dolly,
My favorite sweet Molly,
He still seems to suffer no shame.

—Marie Kreft, Arlington, Minnesota

She peeked through her fingers with hope
That her brother would stay on the rope.
For if he slipped from his seat,
To the floor he would leap,
And her doll would need more than just soap.

I’m making this cake for a few
Of all of our brave lads in blue,
For Casey and Ryan
And Patrick O’Brien
And all of the other cops too!

—Philip Lindal, Yale, Michigan

Congratulations to Philip Lindal! For his poem describing the illustration by Albert W. Hampson, Philip wins a monetary award—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our upcoming issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, Philip’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

Old, gray, but still a bit frisky,
Not afraid to do something risky,
She’d win their hearts over
When inside the clover
They find the fine pint o’ whiskey.

—Ken Elinsky, Solon, Ohio

Had a cake, made from scratch, it was true,
For the boys, who worked hard, wearing blue.
As I tripped at the door
And the cake hit the floor,
There was nothing to say but “Boohoo!”

—JoAnn White, Watertown, New York

Ms. O’Malley did make a great cake
For the boys at the station to take.
And her boy in the clink
Should be out in a blink.
One bite, and they’d know their mistake.

—Mark Blackwell, Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina

This woman, though not very lean,
Is this year’s St. Patrick’s Day queen.
Does her cake have a hint
Of lime or of mint?
Who cares, just as long as it’s green.

Gift wrapping I don’t understand.
Nothing turns out the way that I planned.
The paper looks bunched.
The ribbon’s all scrunched.
Perhaps I just need a third hand.

Congratulations to Bette Killion! For her poem describing the illustration by Dick Sargent, Bette wins a cash prize—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our upcoming issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, Bette’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

]]>The staff of the Post is pleased to announce the winner of the Jul/Aug Limerick Laughs Contest, Karen Davis of Camden, Arkansas! For her poem describing the picture to the left, Karen wins a cash prize—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our Nov/Dec issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here. Now, without further ado, here is Karen’s masterpiece:

While Big Mike was getting a tan

His son got the watering can.

He tipped it and poured it.

Dad snuffled and snorted.

Mom laughed while the little boy ran.

Of course, Karen’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

]]>The staff of The Saturday Evening Post is pleased to announce the winner of the May/Jun Limerick Laughs Contest, Neal Levin of Bloomfield, Michigan! For his excellent poem describing the picture to the left, Neal wins a cash prize—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our Sep/Oct issue, you can submit your entry via the form at the very end of this post. Now, without further ado, here is Neal’s masterpiece:

The little boy storms through the door,
Excited like never before.
He worked extra hard
On his Mother’s Day card,
But his true art’s all over the floor.

Of course, Neal’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are a few of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

He blew in—this small hurricane—
Tracking mud on the rug, dripping rain.
He had made her a card
And was smiling so hard,
That Mom knew she just couldn’t complain.

—Barbara Blanks, Garland, Texas

It’s not that mothers are lax,
It’s just one of life’s little facts.
When she sees all the joy
On the face of her boy
We know she won’t mention the tracks.

—Maudie White, Erie, Pennsylvania

He’s bringing home dirt from the yard
And also a Mother’s Day card!
The one is no pleasure,
The other a treasure.
Forgiving will not be so hard!

—Virginia Wilson, Port Orange, Florida

There’s water and mud on the floor
From the boy and the dog at the door.
But the joy that they bring
Makes it just a small thing.
After all that’s what Mom’s mop is for!

—Teena Marino, St. Peters, Missouri

So excited to give Mom a treat,
He forgot to wipe off his feet.
Though her floor was defiled,
His mom only smiled,
For the card her son brought was so sweet.

—Mary C. Ryan, Bradford, Pennsylvania

This duo with smiles galore
Just tracked a big mess on the floor.
But when Mom sees the card
She won’t take it too hard,
Though her blood pressure may start to soar!
—Rose Hester-Lavenburg, Brooklyn, New York

They cut through the garden, just dug,
And made a big mess on the rug.
But the card from the boy
And the look of pure joy
Will for sure guarantee a big hug.

—Joyce Petrichek, Finleyville, Pennsylvania

When it comes to a son there’s no other
Can melt a mom’s heart like soft butter.
Even covered with mud,
She will give him a hug,
And willingly clean up the clutter.

—Evelyn Vibbert, Fishers, Indiana

When her son came home with his card,
Mother knew he had worked very hard.
And the joy on his face
Seemed to erase
The muck he tracked in from the yard.